


Scruffy

by ianavi



Series: I have your permission? [1]
Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - First Meeting at a Conference, AU - John is a scientist, AU - Sherlock is a scientist, Dom!Sherlock, Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sub!John, foot job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianavi/pseuds/ianavi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scruffy. Sherlock kept repeating the word to himself. A scruffy hotel, a scruffy conference, a scruffy welcome reception and a scruffy man sitting next to him on the scruffy black leather chesterfield.</p><p>This was pointless. Three days of his life lost, and for what? Engaging in 'an academic exchange with his peers'? He snorted. Laughable. Most of them were already drunk and some were actively trying to find someone for a quick conference affair they'd regret later. No one here was nearly as prominent a scientist as he was. No one presented a challenge. It was just the first afternoon and he was already bored.</p><p>---</p><p><cite>This is a subtle, hot little BDSM series of shorts. John and Sherlock are both scientific academics who meet at a conference. The sparks fly, and a little weekend fling leaves them both reeling. LOVE the power play, and very hot depiction of submission and dominance.</cite> <a href="http://alexxphoenix42.tumblr.com/post/151552123093/do-you-have-an-bottomjohn-fics-youd-rec-d">alexxphoenix42</a></p><p>---</p><p>Read the tags...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scruffy

Scruffy. Sherlock kept repeating the word to himself. A scruffy hotel, a scruffy conference, a scruffy welcome reception and a scruffy man sitting next to him on the scruffy black leather chesterfield.

This was pointless. Three days of his life lost, and for what? Engaging in 'an academic exchange with his peers'? He snorted. Laughable. Most of them were already drunk and some were actively trying to find someone for a quick conference affair they'd regret later. No one here was nearly as prominent a scientist as he was. No one presented a challenge. It was just the first afternoon and he was already bored.

He was about to get up and return to his room to do some reading away from this bunch of idiots when his eyes met the gaze of Dr. Stamford, his department head. The man, surrounded by several colleagues from other universities, raised his glass and nodded.

Attending this conference and giving a paper about his research had been a condition of the department signing off on an order of a piece of lab equipment he had already waited too long for. He sighed and sunk back into the leather seat. He could feign one conversation, make sure Dr. Stamford noticed, then excuse himself supposedly to get another drink but really to escape to his room.

He ran a hand down his properly fitted gray suit jacket and turned to look at the man next to him. 

Scruffy. Scruffy blond hair, scruffy lace-up boots, scruffy black leather jacket. Well, at least that last detail distinguished him from the others, badly fitting suits and polyester dresses apparently very popular. He looked far too rough to even be here. Still, if the man cracked a joke of the 'What did the scientist say when he found 2 isotopes of helium?' variety, he was leaving immediately.

"Your jacket matches the couch."

The man startled at his voice and looked at him with an open expression. Well, it wasn't the most elegant opening.

So, he raised one long thin finger and indicated first to the man's shoulder, then to the back of the chesterfield to make his point clear. "The leather. It's an almost perfect match, color, texture of creases." He returned the finger to press into the upper sleeve, surprised at the solid muscle just below the leather.

And the man's lips opened for a sharp inhale. He sat up straighter. Then a pink tongue appeared to wet his top lip.

Immediate arousal? This was unexpected. Had the man interpreted his casual touch as propositioning? Perhaps the one glass of wine had made him careless.

"I'm John. Watson. Imperial College London. I... I look forward to your talk tomorrow, Dr. Holmes."

And John smiled and moved one hand to brush against his thigh. 

He grabbed the wrist. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He almost growled.

"I... I apologize." John looked down at his feet and tried to pull his hand back. He was blushing a deep red.

Bold, then promptly timid, embarrassed. Interesting. Suddenly, surprising himself, he felt an impulse to keep hold of him. Uneasy, he let go of John's wrist and watched as the still bowed man brought his other hand to rub at it.

"No, no need for you to apologize. You had given me no permission to touch you and yet I did. I am sorry about the misunderstanding, it was not my intention to initiate."

Still looking at his shoes. "You can..."

"Excuse me?"

John looked up, blinked a few times and spoke barely audibly. "You have my permission Dr. Holmes."

And Sherlock looked, really looked at the expression on the man's face and realized he was becoming aroused. So he promptly got up and left.

Back in his room he sat in a low armchair, jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up, and read a journal. Well, attempted to read. His thoughts kept returning to the small, blond, embarrassed yet daring man who had simply offered himself. He closed his eyes and ran one hand through his thick dark curls. It had been a very long time since he'd indulged and lately he had been thinking about arranging an encounter. Perhaps, somehow, this man had read it in his demeanor.

He was about to give up on reading and change for bed when he heard a soft knock on the door. A mistake? He got up to open it.

And was met with the sight of John Watson, on his knees, head bowed and neck exposed, clearly trembling.

Without a word he slammed the door closed.

His talk went well, even if he was overly curt during the Q&A. He'd hardly slept and managed only a cup of coffee at breakfast, agitated and sure the man would appear at his table any moment.

Last night's offer of submission had shaken him. It spoke to his deepest desires, desires he'd attempted to ignore for a while. His last relationship had been a decade ago and had ended badly. He wasn't looking for someone to repeat that experience. If anything, lately he'd thought about hiring a discreet professional for a one-time thing. It was easy to do so online.

He was expected to sit through three more tedious sessions of the conference that day, not to mention lunch and dinner with colleagues Dr. Stamford kept introducing him to. He felt a bit like a prized horse. 

As the day progressed, he found himself looking around, eager to glimpse the blond man. Perhaps he'd left the conference. He felt a tinge of regret and promptly tried to shake the feeling off.

Just when he was sure the man would not reappear, he did. Sitting across from him at the dinner table, prompted by Dr. Stamford and two other scientists to talk about the work in his lab.

Sherlock listened. John Watson was competent, and unlike last night, relaxed, even gregarious. Of course, as was always the case, the research was not as revolutionary as what Sherlock was working on, but the level of innovation was a pleasant surprise. He was also extremely eloquent, making all the right jokes and easily prompting his collaborators to take part in the conversation.

He'd glance at Sherlock once in a while but never addressed him.

So, Sherlock ignored the plate of food and allowed himself to take in the tempting man. 

He'd made his decision.

Finally, as soon as it was acceptable, he excused himself and while getting up looked straight at the man and nodded once.

Back in his room he took off his shoes and socks, hung up his suit jacket in the closet and rolled his shirt sleeves up. He brought a towel from the bathroom and set it on the edge of the bedspread, placed a bottle of lubricant under one pillow. It was unlikely things would progress so far, but he liked to be prepared. Then he filled the water glass on the side table and put another opened bottle next to it.

The anticipation. This was something he'd always enjoyed. He took a deep breath.

Like the night before, there was a soft knock at the door. Sherlock smiled.

Unlike last night, when he opened the door, John Watson stood in front of him. He took in his slightly tense bearing, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. His expression was open, eager. Slowly he lowered his gaze towards the floor.

Sherlock stood with one hand on the door and let him wait a moment. 

"I have your permission?"

The man did not move. Very good.

"You may speak."

Eyes still down, voice just slightly unsteady. "Yes, you have my permission."

"Come in."

He shifted and John Watson walked past him into the room. He stood by the bed, clearly vibrating with excitement. His breathing was accelerated. And the twitchy hands. Still, it was clear he was trying to contain himself, to please. Again, good.

"You are to follow every command, speak only when given permission. The exception is if you want something to stop. You will use the word 'stop' and I'll cease immediately. Understood?"

Fast, shallow breaths.

"You may answer."

"Yes, understood."

Sherlock moved to sit in the low armchair.

"Turn to face me. And take everything off, leave the clothes on the bed."

John complied slowly. Jacket, shirt. Revealing a sturdy build torso, some blond chest hair and extensive scarring of one shoulder. Interesting. And something to take into consideration. Shoes, socks, neatly set by the bed. His hands were shaking. Trousers and pants. Robust thighs, more dark blond hair, and a thicker than average and very erect cock. He was absolutely beautiful and Sherlock took a while to just look at him.

John was practically humming with arousal. He needed to calm down or this would end too fast to leave either of them satisfied.

"Come here."

John took three steps and stopped in front of the armchair. He smelt of soap and shampoo, so a shower before coming to him. A pity.

The first time always meant a lot to Sherlock. The gesture of submission. The commitment.

"You'll never again kneel before me without explicit order, is that clear? You may nod if you understand and agree."

John nodded.

He took a deep breath and spoke in a low voice.

"Kneel for me, John."

The man sank slowly, one leg folding after the other, hands on thighs, head down.

He took the glass of water and brought it to John.

"Here, drink a bit."

Sherlock carefully held the glass to John's lips and he drank, eyes down, then licked his lips. If that had been a conscious action Sherlock would stop this instantly. But, he was sure John was unaware of his tell, and also unaware of the effect it had on Sherlock who was a bit too aroused himself.

He replaced the glass on the side table and leaned forward.

"I will touch you now."

An audible exhale. They both needed to calm down.

Sherlock reached out and placed one hand on the nape of John's neck eliciting a full body shiver. He let the weight of his hand sit there. Hot skin. Small shakes. But they had time.

They stayed like this for a long time. Sherlock keeping all his attention focused on the kneeling man, pressing his fingers into the muscle as a reassurance. John settling down into calmness, no longer high-strung, if still aroused.

"You're doing so well." He whispered and John sighed softly.

This was perfect.

He let his hand slide to touch one cheek, placed his fingers under John's chin and lifted it. Eyes closed, small breaths, lips slightly open. Perfect.

Sherlock leaned down and planted a very chaste kiss on those lips. John whimpered but did not move. 

"Keep your head there for me."

He moved back to watch but still keeping one hand on the cheek. He won't take away the anchoring touch for the duration of their time together. They both needed it. 

John, breathing through his mouth, swaying slightly, kept his eyes closed.

"So beautiful for me." And John's eyelids fluttered.

He moved his thumb to brush the fingertip across John's lips.

This was an exercise in patience for both of them. Sherlock was aware of his own need and discomfort. Still, he'd never rush this.

He pushed his thumb in and touched the tip of that pink tongue. Small hot breaths and more shivering.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

After a moment John shook his head.

Sherlock hooked his thumb behind the lower jaw and pulled John towards him sharply making him lose balance on his stiff legs and fall sideways onto his lap. With a small yelp but absolutely no resistance John fell.

Settling him close between his spread legs, John sitting sideways with his legs folded, head turned and one cheek over Sherlock's stiff cock, taking care his arms were positioned comfortably and no pressure was put on the scarred shoulder, Sherlock, one thumb still touching that tongue, placed his other hand on the back of John's head and ran his fingers through his hair. John's breathing had picked up. Probably the sudden repositioning but perhaps also being allowed to touch, possibly even smell Sherlock's desire for him.

"Settle down for me now." And he felt some of the tension leave John's body as he melted under his hands.

"Very good." A small moan escaped John and he immediately stiffened.

"Settle. You are doing well. I am enjoying this very much. And you are allowed to enjoy it."

Small scratches at the back of his head and neck had John pliant and drooling around his thumb.

He spoke softly. "Comfortable?"

John nodded.

They stayed like this for a while. Sherlock reaching to trace lines over John's shoulders and side. He was still very erect and the sight made Sherlock appreciate his complete pliancy even more.

"So good for me. Wonderful."

He reached down and pinched one nipple. John's whole body jerked dislodging the thumb from his open mouth and his eyes flew open.

The absolutely beautiful response had Sherlock on the edge of just fucking into that mouth.

John, eyes closed, was resting against one of his thighs and panting.

Sherlock pinched again and John bit his lip.

"Let me hear you."

Pinched nipple, scratched skin, pulled chest hair. John was openly moaning, his thick red cock twitching against his stomach. He was a sweating, throaty mess. 

There was a point where John would come desensitised and they were nearing that point.

"Wonderful, just wonderful."

He slid his hand down John's stomach, into the dark honey pubic hair, and pulled.

John screamed.

It was an amazing sight, one he wanted to remember forever.

Quickly, he unzipped and pulled down his trousers, then gently brought John's lips towards his cock.

"Suck now."

With broken moans John sucked and licked.

"Perfect, so perfect."

He was far too close already. Looking down at John's slightly contorted body, mouth open, saliva down his chin, arms loosely hanging with fingers spread on the carpet, legs folded sideways and that eager erection. Sherlock lifted one leg slightly and stepped the arch of his bare foot on that gorgeous fat cock.

John choked.

His voice was rough and low. "You may cum as soon as I do, John."

Sucking and swallowing and rubbing himself against the foot with small jerky movements as Sherlock ejaculated into his mouth and over his lips with grunts of his own, John was soon breaking down into a powerful climax.

It took him a moment to catch his breath. He looked down at John, pink skin and sweaty from the exertion, hair disheveled, face and stomach covered with semen. He was smiling, seemingly in complete bliss. Sherlock felt improbable affection in that moment.

"Come, let's lay on the bed."

He helped John, who was a little unsteady on his legs and soon they were under the bedspread, John at his side. He pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head as John sank into his arms with a small hum.

"My scruffy, perfect boy. I'm keeping you."


End file.
